Solace
by kiwi-fruit-from-hell
Summary: Without Wilson, what does House have? Strong HouseWilson friendship, becoming SLASH from chapter 3 onwards. Warning: Character Death. Rated M for chapter 4, generally T.
1. Chapter 1

I am _really_ sorry for the nastiness in this. Really really. I feel so mean. Bu I also kinda love it. R&R.

Oh, I'm still encouraging people to view my forum - go through my profile to find it.

Disclaimer: Totally not mine.

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Wilson looked pale, almost milk white. Tiny blue lines criss-crossed beneath his skin. The long dark eyelashes seemed deepest black, like negative space resting against his cheekbones. His neck curved gracefully and a faint shadow was cast in the hollows created by his collarbone. James looked ethereal. The image would be the most beautiful House had seen, were it not for the blue tint of his soft lips and the fine pink scars standing out vividly in the morgue lights. 

His left hand rested on cold steel and his right felt like it was the same, only this cold steel used to have a name. The pulsing light that House had seen within him was gone now. The switch had been flicked off by broken glass and twisted metal, by a man fiddling with his car radio instead of watching the road. Swerving, screeching, shattering and the only thing in House's world was gone. Synapses had been cut off, neurones had stopped firing, blood no longer pulsed and James Wilson's eyes stopped dancing, his lips could no longer quirk into a devilish smile and his nose would not crinkle with laughter.

Greg's eyes stopped dancing when Wilson's did. He could not smile, he could not laugh, all he was capable of was sitting with his hand on the corpse of his friend, tears falling unnoticed, praying to a god he had long ago stopped believing in for a miracle. House could not understand why he was here. Wilson was gone, over, ended. There was no spark anymore; his body was just one more object, inanimate and room temperature. It lost meaning; everything had lost meaning. An image filled House's mind, washing across his eyes, of Wilson's body in the ground surrounded by the constant force of earth on all sides. He imagined the slow decay of his friend's body, skin and muscle fading to bone then dust. Light faded to dark, Wilson faded to nothing and House went with him.

Greg faced blankness. A day in day out routine of empty space around him and within him, months of ordering twice the Chinese takeout he needed and his birthday without the offhand acknowledgement. He faced the day when he would wake up unable to recall the way Jimmy looked when he smiled.

House's hand rested on Wilson's chest, trying to remedy the cold that had engulfed the body, trying to give the corpse some semblance of life. All he could feel was a tingling chill spiking through his fingers, spreading numbness over him.

Life invaded the room and it told House he had to leave, told him to take time off work and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. "Greg, the funeral…" Cuddy's breath hitched and she gently squeezed House's shoulder. Her heels clicked on the hard floor as she left House alone again.

Tremors wracked his body unheeded when he stood, removing his hand from the…object on the cold metal table. He leant over the corpse and pressed his lips to it's brow. Greg pulled back and looked at the forever closed eyelids. He limped out of the room, leaving his tears glistening on the face that had once belonged to James Wilson.

House sat in his office and watched the duckling talk quietly. Chase had turned away from the others twice now, briskly wiping his eyes. He had grabbed Cameron's arm and pulled her back when she started towards the office, for which House was grateful. He wearily ran his hand across his face, only vaguely aware that it came away wet. The doctor struggled to his feet and pulled open his office door. "Go home."

House settled back in his chair and called his own home, dialling into the answering machine. The messages were still there.

"House, you're needed at the hospital." The first of the messages, from Cuddy as they all were. She sounded choked. Her voice was weak and thick from crying. House couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it, he had ignored her.

"House, are you there? You have to come to the hospital." This was message two, also ignored while House sat at the piano, picking out a tune and watching Wilson's Chinese go cold.

"Greg, get to the fucking hospital now." On the final message her sob sounded clearly. "It's Wilson."

When he arrived at the hospital, 2 hours and 38 minutes after the first phone call, Cuddy had led him to the morgue. He could tell now from these messages, from the different levels of pain permeating them, that if he had been there sooner he could have spoken to the only person he believed in one last time, and held his hand while it was still warm. He could have told him all the things he was grateful for and he could have said everything he always told himself could wait one more day to be said. Wilson could have forgiven him for not saying all the things he wanted to say sooner.

"House, you're needed at the hospital"

"House, are you there? You have to come to the hospital."

"Greg, get to the fucking hospital now. It's Wilson."

2 hours and 38 minutes.

"House, you're needed…"

"House, are you there…"

"It's Wilson."

_It's Wilson._ _It used to be Wilson. It's nothing._

House hurled the lacrosse ball across the room, throwing it hard against the window. The pane shuddered with impact, but didn't even crack. He released a long, faltering breath. Leaving his cane discarded on the floor House limped out onto the balcony that joined with what had once been Wilson's office. He leant on the railings, head pressed against the same hard surface his hands were, eyes closed. He listened closely, letting all the sound of the surrounding world seep into him. The main road sounded like dull, relentless thunder, a background for all other noises. The everyday world continued around him. Nothing would stop because one man died. The sun was even shining today, blistering cold daylight illuminating everything in the same harsh glare as the morgue lights. House scratched his fingernail over the railing, chips breaking off the rough surface and scraping the sensitive skin of his fingertips. He jumped and turned at an imagined sound behind him, expecting Wilson to walk out onto the balcony and join him. The door to Wilson's office remained shut, and the blinds were pulled closed. Sunlight reflected off the glass, temporarily blinding House. He squinted into the brightness, then turned in a circle taking in the way everything looked out here, covered with blotches of purple and blue as an after effect of staring into the light.

House blinked. He was at his front door. He could not remember leaving the hospital, or driving home, or even taking the elevator up to his floor. The collar of his shirt had started to chafe at his neck, sticking to skin that was damp with tears. The corners of his eyes hurt; the effort to keep them open was more than he wanted to give. When he blinked his eyes resisted reopening, just faintly, as salt stuck the lashes together. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, finding a peanut and a few cents worth of change in the process. House held all three in his fist, then uncurled his hand slowly and focused his eyes in the objects flat on his palm. He counted the change, then lifted his opposite hand and flicked the peanut away. The change was placed back in his pocket. He slid the key into the lock, the scraping noise clear inside his head. He turned the key rotating his entire hand, instead of grasping it between thumb and forefinger.

Windows were open in his apartment, curtains pulled back. Brash light shone into the room, illuminating the dust motes floating through the air. House reached out his hand and tried to catch them as he had done as a child. Everything was how he had left it. His half eaten takeout sat on the piano; Wilson's was untouched on the coffee table along with a bottle of warm beer. House's jacket was tossed over the edge of the couch, he had not stopped to put it on when he rushed out last night. Two DVD rentals were on top of the TV set, both unwatched. House flicked the light switch on and off, on and off, on and off, until the bulb broke with a dull bang.

Greg dropped onto the centre cushion of the couch, leaving his cane to clatter to the floor. He popped open the beer that was sitting on the coffee table with his thumb and pulled back the lid flaps of the carton containing cold chicken lo mein. Using one chop stick he speared a piece of meat. The dry chicken broke down to paste on his tongue and small lumps of congealed sauce caught on the roof of his mouth. The food slid slowly down his throat, bite after bite settling heavily in his stomach. House pushed the carton away onto the floor, scattering the few remaining scraps. He left the remnants there sinking into the thick carpet pile to stain.

House tipped his head back, closing his eyes. Food churned in his stomach and he felt a lump in his throat, acid on his tongue. His diaphragm heaved in warning, and he covered his mouth, blindly staggering for the bathroom. Another jerk from his diaphragm threw his balance and sent him to his knees in front of the toilet. His knuckles turned white gripping the side of the bowl as food crawled slowly, painfully up his oesophagus. Acid stung on the back of his throat and tears stung his eyes. A furry taste already settling in his mouth, House leant against the cold tiled wall softly banging the back of his head in repetitious motion, letting the rhythm remove all thoughts from his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

House could see most of Princeton from up here. Orange lights, magnified by toxic fumes, formed hundreds of points in the darkness. The drone of the traffic rose up, making a white noise background for House's thoughts. Lights swung around the corner, casting illumination on the flowers adorning the tarmac, before flitting away again. House sat on the cold ground, dampness seeping through the seat of his pants. His good leg was drawn up to his chest, and he wrapped his arms around it, resting his chin on his knee. Wearing only jeans and a monster truck t-shirt, he shivered from cold. Always staring out over the city, he kept in his periphery vision the flowers that had been laid.

This was the first time he had been up here. He did not bring flowers. He hadn't even looked directly at the flowers yet, but he held in his hand a twisted piece of metal that had been at the side of the road. House pulled it back and forth in his hands, the rough edges burning his skin. The grass a few feet away was scorched. It had turned brown, the exact shade of his hair and eyes. Dark red paint had scraped itself onto a tree. Dark red blood stained the ground; it stained and tinted everything till all colours blurred into one. Everything looked the same but it all felt red.

House dug his fingernail into the soft, damp earth beside him; the mud and grit clotted beneath his nail. His finger scrapped over a stone and his nail snapped down to the quick. In an absent attempt to take the edge off the stinging, he placed his finger in his mouth and sucked, the taste of salty skin and acrid dirt staining his tongue.

"What's the differential for chronic headaches, localized paralysis, anaemia and low bloody sugar that's not responding to glucose or insulin? Cameron thought Lupus, big surprise." House paused, cocking his head to hear an invisible sound. "Foreman took the neurological route, a tumour messing with things in his head but the MRI didn't show up more than a spot – probably anomalous." He nodded slowly. "There _were_ a few psych symptoms, nothing interesting though." Sighing, House continued, "I can't remember the last time I saw a good bit of plague."

House tossed a stone between his hands, back and forth, back and forth, just like he had done so often with a lacrosse ball. The stone beat rhythmically on his palms and the feeling took on familiarity; it became another part of the constant sensory bombardment that he was steadily learning to filter out.

"Can you believe Julie was laughing at your parents' house, while they were Sitting Shiva? She cried at the ceremony but…well you know I never liked her. I wasn't surprised in the slightest that you cheated on this one – well, I wouldn't have been surprised anyway, but you didn't even try this time. I always wondered if you got the third wedding free, but I thought it would be a bit tactless to ask. Yes, I do have tact. Anyway, it wouldn't have been any fun if I couldn't say it in front of Julie, and after The Jennifer Incident you didn't let me near your wives for any reasonable amount of time." House laughed. "Do you remember the look on Jennifer's face when I told her you had fishnets and a little black dress for the _special_ parties? Actually, it's a pity you couldn't see the look on your own face, that one was a classic."

House drew back his right arm and paused for a moment before throwing the stone over the grassy bank with a flick of his wrist. He listened to it tumble and thud dully down until it came to a stop with a sharp clack against another rock. "Cuddy found a replacement. I was a little surprised she found one so soon, but I guess everyone wants to a head a department. I don't quite see why anyone would want to head _oncology_ – spend all day telling people that they're going to die and there's nothing you can do about it. I don't know how you managed it for so long; that's one of the many confusing things about you James. How could you spend everyday so…helpless, like that? You couldn't fix them. You didn't pretend that you could." Sudden parallels struck House as he realised what he was saying. "I better not have been just one more pet project for you."

"This guy, the replacement, is starting next week. Your office hasn't even been cleaned out yet. I don't think Julie's going to come in to do it, that would be far too much trouble, so I suppose I have to. Or else Dr Hamster – oh yeah, this guy really does look like a rodent. It's uncanny. I bet him and Steve will get along well – he'll have to clear out your office himself, probably throw everything in the trash. So that leaves it up to me. I hope you appreciate it; it's a lot of work for someone with a bum leg."

Tears had begun to flow unnoticed down House's cheeks. He continued speaking as normal, "Delivery fucked up with my Vicodin again today. I was 4 hours without any pain control at all." House didn't say that the delivery had only been half an hour late, but he had waited longer before taking them because he had started to _feel_ something. The throbbing pain in his leg anchored him to the real world for a few hours. It wasn't something he planned to do again. "I…uh, in General Hospital, it turns out Lucy did kill him. Told you so, didn't I?"

A biting wind had started battering against House, pulling his T-shirt tight to his body and skimming through the fabric to assault his skin. He slowly levered himself up from the ground, a process taking several minutes, and leaned heavily on his cane as he started the walk back to his Corvette. He looked at the ground as he walked, following the edge of the sidewalk, and found himself looking down at the flowers that had been laid for Wilson, strewn about by the wind. He lifted his head and looked at the points of light in the city once more.

"I shouldn't have bugged you to come over. I knew it would cause an argument with Julie…that's partly why I did it. But I had stuff I wanted to talk to you about; it's not important now. Julie said that she was screaming at you as you left the house that night, you must have been upset, not paying attention as you drove. And all because I asked you to come over. Then Cuddy kept calling, telling me to come to the hospital and I didn't because I was waiting for you. I couldn't work out why you were so late, I never thought…I was cursing you in my head for being so late."

"Cuddy took me straight down to the morgue when I finally got to the hospital. Too late, as I always was with you."

House ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I miss you, Jimmy."


	3. Chapter 3

It is a dream sequence, in case anyone's wondering.

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Soft lips whispered against House's ear as he sat at the piano, hands flowing over the keys and throwing out the sounds of a guitar, eyes fixed on the condensation pouring down a glass of scotch. He felt warm, chocolate brown eyes stroking the back of his neck. "It goes like this," silken words echoed in his mind. "The 4th, the 5th, the minor fall and the major lift."

"Hey, stranger." House mumbled over the music soaking into him. "Past, present or future?"

"Past."

"Did God tell you that I had to change my ways or go to hell? 'Cus I don't believe a word of it; that guy's always had it in for me."

"Since when did you believe in him?"

Eyes always fixed on the glass, on the tracks of water and the melting ice diluting amber liquid. "I don't believe in anything. You're nothing but worms and meat."

"But I'm still here." The words were tempting, caressing.

"I wish you would go. Leave me be."

House was alone in the dark. One room, one dark room and he knew there was a door somewhere but it was too noisy. If the music would just stop, if the drumming and strumming would leave and the piano would be silenced, he might be able to remember where it was. He might be able to hear the voice telling him how to get out. Light flashed and in a brief moment that lasted forever House saw the door to his right, Wilson holding his cane to the left and Vogler behind the glass holding a clipboard. Then dark again and the music stopped. His ears ached in the silence, buzzing, ringing. Breathing echoed around him; his breath and Wilson's mingling into a sound more deafening than the music.

House was sat on his couch with Chinese takeout in his hand. A man whose hair smelled of coconut walked in and handed him a beer. They laughed and talked and smiled and learnt everything they had to know and House could not hear a word of it. Breath still stung in his ears and drowned out the rest of the world. He felt the vibrations of his own voice deep in his throat as he spoke but couldn't process what he was saying. A carton of takeout fell to the floor, the remnants sinking into the thick carpet pile. House left it to stain.

Coconut filled his nostrils as the couch dipped beside him. Warmth radiated from the body next to him. Breathing stopped, his own chest was still and so was Wilson's. The chocolate brown eyes glazed and did not move, the skin turned dull and grey and House felt the warmth drain away from him far too soon.

Icy air tingled over House's skin when the blue lips moved. "I've seen your flag on the marble arch."

"You never saw anything." House couldn't feel the vibrations anymore.

"I saw you."

"Lies. Everybody lies; you're just one more body." House felt cold hands close over his face and darkness consumed him again, all the more terrifying when it was accompanied by silence. "The world still moves without you."

"You don't."

House was lying in a hospital bed wearing a gown, with an IV hooked up to his right wrist and blood draining from his left. A green tie hung where his chart should be. A man sat beside him, nose crinkled from a smile that had spread across his perfect features. The man spoke with relief in his voice, "You woke up."

"You didn't." House replied.

"I'm not sleeping. She left you a gift."

"I've seen this room before."

"You work here. Today you get to be the puzzle."

"Think you can solve me?"

Wilson laughed. "If I can't, I'll die trying."

House stood shivering on the balcony that joined their offices. It was night and the stars were shining but the moon was no where to be seen. He stood close to James, looking directly at him, taking in the image of his face, his body, his _life_.

James cast his eyes down with something like regret. "Remember when I moved in you?"

"Never happened." House shook his head.

"You've thought about it. You've dreamt of me before."

"Dreams don't mean what they say."

"When you kissed me and touched me, came for me and made me come for you, held me and whispered that you loved me, when you woke up with wet sheets, what did those dreams mean?" Wilson leant in close, they were brow to brow and cobalt blue eyes locked with chocolate brown ones.

"Probably just some sort of issues with my parents."

So close to him, Wilson laughed.

"You know what? You left. You don't get answers anymore."

""Anymore?" When did I get them before?"

"You never _asked _before." House retorted. He found himself where he had began, back to square one with lips whispering against his ear and a glass of scotch the only thing in his line of sight. The ice had melted now, amber liquid sat warm and dilute in a dry glass.

"The 4th, the 5th, the minor fall and the major lift."

"Shhh." House played piano. He felt warm lips pressed to the back of his neck, a tongue firmly working away the knots in his muscles. Guiding hands coaxed him away from the piano and lead him to the bedroom, supporting him but never allowing him to turn around and see the face. Coconut and bitter, dark chocolate engulfed him.

Red and black. Crimson. Sheets and sodium light. Slick, sweat, friction. Burning. Pulsing. Throbbing, pounding rhythm. Writhing. Sheets; bitter, binding, torn. Electrical shocks. Cobalt. Chocolate. Luminosity. Salt skin. Silk. Force and pressure and penetration. Hollow. Clutching, craving. Tangled. Saturated. Bucking. Arching. Cold and broken release.


	4. Chapter 4

OK, I've changed the rating of this story to M because of this section. I'm not really sure with ratings, so I figured I should, just to be on the safe side.

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**Solace – Chapter 4**

House woke abruptly from his dream, cold sweat coursing down his back, running over and between his shoulder blades, making him shiver. First light was beginning to seep through the curtains, casting faint lines and deep shadows. He could still taste the dream in his mouth. Shivering, he pulled the covers tight around himself, sitting and staring at the wall until he began to feel warm and the damp sheet started to chafe. Birds twittered outside his window, making meaningless, tuneless sounds.

House rose, and crossed to the window. Pulling back the curtains, he looked out upon a clear, cold day. He opened the window a crack, wincing at the heightened noise, and put his face close to the frame, letting the biting air revive him. The memories of things that never happened in reality were burned onto his mind. Every time he blinked images appeared in negative behind his eyelids. He got frustrated trying to pin point them. When he tried to think back to the dream, to revisit that place, shivers ran up his spine and blood pulsed in his cock, but all he saw was a swirl of skin and heat, all wrapped up in red.

Staring blindly out of the window, House ran one hand down over his chest, feeling the ridges of his ribs with his forefinger and pressing into the soft flesh below his diaphragm. He continued sliding his hand down, hooked a thumb around the waist band of his boxers, and pulled, shedding his last remaining item of clothing. Eyes closed, he tipped his head back as he began slowly trailing his fingers back and forth over his hardening cock. Pumping at an achingly slow speed, House filtered out the sounds of real life that had been constantly pounding at him, splintering his skull and penetrating his mind since…since _then_. He blocked it out, and rubbing his thumb over the head of his penis, found clearer moments of the dream returning to him. He could feel Wilson's mouth, warm and wet, wrapped around him. The sensation was as strong as if he was really there, and House's hips thrust. His back arched and he imagined James entering him, full and hard, moving inside him. House moved his hand faster. He could feel James gripping his hips, holding on as he thrust deeper, harder, sucking on the back of his neck as he slid in further with each buck of his hips. Burning spread over him. House tightened his fist and flicked his wrist faster until he came with a harsh groan echoing from the back of his throat.

House could still smell the semen on his hands as he walked through clinic and onwards to his office. As had become routine now, he did not speak to Cameron, Chase or Foreman, only sat in his office all day reviewing charts and writing instructions on them for the ducklings to pick up later. A scan crossed his desk and immediately he saw cancer presented. He stuck a purple sticker on the file and threw it to the other side of the room. Swinging his chair around, House looked out onto the balcony and tossed the lacrosse ball against the glass, catching it on rebound. Continuing the game with one hand, he flicked the dial of his iPod, and music blared from speakers, filling the office with noise. Heavy rhythm made the floor shake, vibrations travelling through House and shaking inside his chest.

Foreman brought him coffee in a red mug at 11 o'clock. He took it from him with a grunt of thanks and poured the dark bitter liquid into his mouth, gulping it down and scolding his throat. The hot drink made the insides of his mouth tingle, the soft skin of his cheeks protesting at the heat. He could still sense someone in the room but did not turn around. He tried to do nothing that would invite conversation, only stare at the balcony and wait to be left alone once more.

Foreman coughed. "You should take some leave."

"I don't recall asking for your opinion."

"So you plan to sit in this office and sign off on boring cases for the rest of your life?"

"It beats sitting at home thinking."

"How?"

House didn't answer. He just looked blankly out of the glass doors.

"You can't do your job like this."

House pointed over his shoulder to the stack of charts.

"He wouldn't want you to be like this."

House laughed bitterly. "True. But then he probably didn't want to die, either."

"Cuddy said the new guy starts tomorrow. If you want to clean out his office…" Foreman sighed. House faintly heard him say to the offers "I tried," as he walked into the outer office.

House bounced the ball against the glass one last time, before taking a small key from his desk drawer and venturing out onto the balcony. Cold air hit him full in the face, shaking him to the bone with vibrations stronger than the music had been. He bathed in it, in the intense feeling and spreading numbness.

Wilson's office had acquired a musty scent over the days it stood empty. A photo of Julie sat on the desk, turned face down. House hadn't known things had gotten to that point in his marriage. There was a stained coffee cup to the right of it. Nobody had been in here except to remove case files. A chewed up blue biro had leaked, leaving a dark blue stain on the wood. There was a thank you card on display in an open cabinet on the back wall. House did not need to open it to know it was from a little girl who had just gone into remission. Wilson had told him about it at lunch, joking that getting a card should be worth at least $50. House had seen that beyond the humour, Wilson was truly happy about it. It was the only time he had really understood why James had chosen to work in oncology.

Steadily, House filled boxes with James' things, some destined for the trash, some to be sent to Julie if she would take them, and a few things House wanted to keep for himself. The thank you card, the chewed biro, a board meeting memo and the pocket protector from his lab coat. He sifted through paperwork in the drawers, trying to find what was important and needed to be dealt with and what was irrelevant. In his outbox for internal mail there was an envelope marked "House". Greg ripped it open, and tipped the contents onto the now empty desk.

Two monster truck rally tickets and a note looked up at him.

_If we do this, we could die. I'd be willing to risk it with you._

_Oh, and I guarantee I'll be more fun than Cameron._

House smiled. James had always loved dramatics, and he must have been relishing seeing House burst into his office, flapping tickets in the air. He settled in James' chair and read the note over, turning the tickets between his fingers on the other hand. For the first time, House could feel himself crying.


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry about the delay in this folks, it's something I can only write when I'm in the right mindset. Hopefully, chaptersix won't be as long in the works.

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Smudges of ink from a blue biro stained House's left palm and index finger, as well as a chewed nail. He wound the pen around his fingers, watching the shattered end circling, rising and falling in its path around his digits. The tendon linked to his pinky stiffened and he lost the rhythm, his fingers tripping, the pen clattering and bouncing onto the table top, scratching a blue line onto the soft, pale pink material of the top right corner of a thank you card.

House leant his head back, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, feeling Wilson pricking at the edges of his consciousness. The scent of beer and Chinese food suffused his nostrils and the good memories that had been plaguing him forced entry again. A warm, rich world blurred with the lines of this one, then sharpened as it drove deeper. He had eaten nothing but Chinese takeout for days, always ordering enough for two though he struggled to eat enough for one. He struggled to eat at all. Nothing in the world had texture or taste anymore. It all turned to ashes.

His leg was cramped. Bolts of pain exploded from random points every few minutes, sending his hand flying down to suppress the feeling. He would grit his teeth against the pain, breathing so hard his chest hurt. He was trembling; he didn't think he'd be able to stand up. When he shifted his body weight forward, starting to transfer the balance to his feet, another jolt of searing pain hit him, sending shards spiralling through his chest. The Vicodin bottle in his shirt pocket had no rattle, all the pills were gone. House hadn't bothered to do this math – he used more than he should, he'd lost count of how many over the last 24 hours. His mind checked that the bottle had been close to empty before anyway, he hadn't taken enough to do any damage, though he didn't think it would have bothered him if he had. There was another bottle sitting on his kitchen counter.

To get to the kitchen counter, he would have to stand up. He would have to make it past the blinding ache, the knives under his feet. But he knew he didn't have to a choice. Tonight, House had to go out.

Jacket on, fresh pills taken and more stashed in his pocket, sneakers on and cane in hand, House leant his head to the cool wood of his front door. He squinted through the peephole and watched the building's entrance hall. The refracted light twisted the image, distorting the view. It made the way out seem tiny.

Screaming and shouting and cheering filled the air around House. The hard plastic seat dug into his back, making the base of his spine ache with a dull, warm pain that spread steadily with the passing time. He pressed the heel of his hand down sharply on this damaged thigh, closing his eyes to allow the familiar sting to wash over him. He took pleasure in knowing that for the most part, he could hide the severity of his pain. His cane leant against the empty seat beside him. Two tickets were in his hand, one a torn off stub and the other whole and unused.

A brief breeze whipped through the stadium and tugged at the tickets in his hand. Below him, House saw cars being crushed. Metal screeched and glass shattered. His head started to spin. Mud was thrown up from the ground to splatter the sides of vehicles and tyres span in the dirt. Loud music blasted from speakers, accompanied by wrestling-style commentary. Intricate, elaborate displays ended with trucks crunching over cars or spinning them to the side of the arena.

House snapped his head sideways, convinced he had glimpsed something, someone, in the corner of his eye. The seat remained empty. Always empty. If Wilson had been there…snippets of old conversations played through House's head. What if Wilson had come the first time, instead of having dinner with Stacy? One extra evening together, one more round of banter, one more night of bliss, probably followed by one more morning of soul searching. Maybe one more drunken event never again mentioned, that may or may not have happened. The most vivid memory House had of his whole life was alcohol being sucked off his fingers by Wilson, and he wasn't even sure if it had happened.

Pressure was building on his shoulders. Everywhere House turned, he felt people, so many people, closing him in, denying him peace. The cheering, the crunching and keening of metal, it all invaded his breathing space. Instinctively he tried to pull his body inwards, to take up less space and put some air between him and the rest of the world.

He stood, leaving his jacket thrown over his seat, and began to push his way past the people sat in his row. He smacked at their feet with his cane, mumbling for them to move, to let him out and studiously avoiding anybodies' eyes.

When he got home, the first thing House did was pull a bottle of scotch from his drinks cabinet.

House immediately noticed when he woke up the metallic tang in his mouth. Glass was crushed below his hand, one shard still stuck into the heel of his palm. He looked at the skin surrounding the fragment, perfectly sliced, with blood congealed and clotting around its edges. He pulled the shard free and the blood flow began again. It was deeper than he had expected. House levered himself into a sitting position and realised he had been lying on his living room floor. A small pool of blood stained the carpet, and he felt it crusting his face as well. A broken glass was scattered over the floor, responsible for the cuts on his hand and arm, and a scotch bottle lay horizontal on his coffee table, more than half of its contents poured out.

His cane was leaning against the mantle, on the other side of the room.

House grimaced as he wrapped a bandage around his hand, and whispered into his empty apartment, "The broken cannot be repaired, the dead cannot be raised and there's no fucking point in any of it."


End file.
